even the smoke is blind
by irresistible.revolution
Summary: When her fiancé grows too ill to visit a wealthy foreign investor, Bonnie Bennett travels to the Carpathians herself to finalize the deal. But Transylvania is like no place she's ever known, and Count Mikaelson the strangest of men. Soon, Bonnie fears she might never escape. (Dracula AU, specifically the Francis Ford Coppola film AU, shortfic, written for gothicklonnie2k19)


_Truly there is no such thing as finality.  
_

\- Bram Stoker

* * *

The train bore through the dusk and Bonnie put aside her diary, conceding her gaze to the Carpathian mountains as the Transylvanian countryside flowed by. The scenery commanded her attention, dark and violet and captivating, and she already found herself missing the familiarity of London as the train took her deeper into this strange but beautiful country. Doubt clouded her spirits. She knew nothing of this place, even less about the man she was en route to see, at whose house she would be a guest for several days. She re-read the letter that had greeted her at the train station, written on stiff, heavy paper in a sweeping cursive that almost tricked the eye into thinking the script belonged to another language.

_My friend,_

_I bid you welcome to the Carpathians, and trust your journey has been a fair one. My coachman shall meet you at the Borgo Pass, and bring you to me. I look forward to making your acquaintance, and hope you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful home._

_Your servant,_

_Niklaus Cantemir Mikaelson. _

His name alone carried the weight of centuries.

Bonnie had little admiration for noble blood - in her experience it too often served as a cloak for immoral character. But securing the Count's ownership of several London properties would benefit her fiancé, Lorenzo St John's, law firm immensely. "_We could be married in the springtime," Lorenzo had whispered under the arbor of roses outside Lockwood Manor. _That was before the brain fever had made him too ill to carry out this journey across the sea. "_You'll be my wife at last, my sweet Bonnie," he had said in between urgent kisses that ended too swiftly__. __She had thrilled to the fervor in his voice._

The memory caused warmth to bloom in her chest, chasing fear away. She was doing this for Enzo, for their future. Opening the leather-covered miniature of her betrothed she always kept close, she thumbed Enzo's handsome, dark-eyed countenance and let herself dream of their springtime wedding. She recalled his warm breath on her cheek mingled with the heady scent of roses, the delicious graze of his beard where her pulse fluttered, and an entirely different heat coursed through her, taking devious refuge in the pit of her belly so that she shifted in her seat, hoping the sensation would pass. _Mrs St. John_, she whispered to herself, and warmth flooded her face anew. Perhaps this one instance, she ought to be grateful to a nobleman like the Count, for the blessing he would unwittingly bequeath on her and her love.

She kept Enzo's image clasped in her hands as dusk, slipping slyly between the mountains, invited her eye, even as it mantled all in velvet shadows. Bonnie was struck once more by the strange beauty of this place - so stark and quiet in the evening light. For a moment, it seemed to her the black hillsides were full of hidden faces - faces she somehow recognized. A sudden chill swept over her. But she swiftly and resolutely dismissed the fanciful thoughts, for if she's appeared anything other than practical and firm she would fail to convince the Count that she was a fitting proxy for Enzo, and he might very well withdraw his offers, and then the firm would discover the truth, that she had gone in Enzo's place. The barristers would have no choice but to dismiss Enzo. She would never be Mrs. St John - Enzo was too proud to marry her on a simple clerk's pay, if he was without work entirely she was certain he would be lost to her forever.

She kissed the image of her beloved and made herself strong.

* * *

At the station, she climbed into a stagecoach with a young mother and her child and two nuns. The women huddled together in the cold, but none spoke. Occasionally, Bonnie caught them stealing furtive glances at her. A thick anxiety seemed to fill the small interior. It seemed the further they went, the wilder the countryside became, and soon Bonnie could not make out any landmarks at all. She was shocked when the coachman rather brusquely gestured at her stop - the Borgo Pass where she would await the Count's carriage was marked by little more than the stump of a dead tree. All around her stretched the fog-wreathed woods, through the black, tangled foliage of which even the moonlight barely reached them. Bonnie halted on the carriage step, her nerves failing for a moment, when suddenly she felt a hard, small grip on her shoulder. It was the young mother, her face fearful and pale. The nuns in their dark hoods said nothing.

"God protect you," the young woman said, then shoved her hard, so Bonnie nearly pitched forward into the dirt. Then they rolled off, leaving her braced against the skeletal tree.

It seemed she waited for hours, and the mist confounded her senses, for sometimes she thought she heard the howling of wolves nearby, other times they echoed far away. The fox-lined traveling cloak her dear friend Caroline had insisted on lending her thankfully had a hood, and this Bonnie pulled over her head against the chill wind.

At last a dark carriage appeared slowly into view, the coachman so heavily cloaked she couldn't make out his face in the dark. He spared her no glance, but she recognized the same crest on the carriage that had adorned the Count's letter. When she hesitated, it seemed to her the coachman growled, and the door swung open.

Dazed, but unwilling to brave the woods alone any longer, she climbed quickly inside.

The journey to the Count's residence took them even deeper into the woods. Bonnie tried and failed to count the miles they travelled, for the coachman drove the horses at a devil's speed, so that she was rattled violently to and fro. At one point it seemed they clambered up a great hillside, though the horses never slowed.

They rolled to a halt in the midst of a vast, stone courtyard where, through the moonlight, Bonnie could see the shape of a great castle with turrets wrapped in dark sky. She knew from Enzo that the Count was very wealthy, but she had expected different - a manor house perhaps, or a more modern palace, outfitted in the golden splendor of his lineage.

This structure, by contrast, was grey and ancient, its towers forming cruel silhouettes, and its windows dark, and eyeless.

A chill descended on her that had nothing to do with the cold air. The same fleeting tug she'd felt on the train, when it seemed the mountains were full of familiar faces. Like the whisper of some half-forgotten dream.

"Who are you?" a voice asked from the shadows, and Bonnie saw a tall figure appear atop the stone steps leading to the castle's heavily carved wooden door.

"You are not Lorenzo St. John," the figure spoke again, this time with a touch of amusement. It was a voice befitting this place, she thought. Dark and potent.

"I am his fianceé, Bonnie Bennett," she said, approaching the steps and removing her hood so the mysterious speaker might see her face. "Lorenzo is ill and cannot travel. I have brought the deeds to the Count's estate in Carfax, all he need do is sign them, and -,"

"How fortunate for me."

And the Count himself appeared to her view, holding aloft a lantern shaped like a beautiful cage. He was several years older than her, but still young. So young that Bonnie recoiled in dismay. She had labored under the assumption that the Count was old, a widower perhaps, someone her grandfather's age with whom she could dwell for a few days without raising questions of propriety.

Her first impression was of a stark, almost frightening countenance. His features were patrician enough - a fine jaw and a noble brow - but mixed with a feral, Eastern elegance that once more reminded her she was far from home. Eyes long and deep as a hawk's pinned her in place as he descended the stairs slowly, as though she were some nervous creature prone to flee. His movements were elegant, his attire spotless black save for the long, sable cape that flowed behind his feet and, with every step, flashed a violet underbelly.

The chill from earlier deepened, becoming a cold wave of dizziness and dread as he drew close with unsettling grace. She had never seen a man move so liquidly. She could not not shrink from his gaze. And there it was again, that sense of some terrible nostalgia.

"Bonnie." He spoke her name like a question, a marvel, and those long, hunter's eyes examined her head to foot so intensely that she bristled, drawing her cloak close about her.

"I realize I was not what you had expected," Bonnie said, trying to maintain an air of calm authority. "But I assure you, Count, that your acquisition of Carfax Abbey will suffer no unnecessary delay."

His head angled slowly, the way she imagined a serpent might consider an unguarded robin's nest. Her quailing nerves rallied, and annoyance took control. "In England," she said, sharply, "we consider it impolite to subject a lady's person to such scrutiny. Either invite me in from the cold, sir, or dismiss me."

She waited, flushed with pique, for the inevitable dismissal. To have come so far with such determination, only to fail here, at the very doorstep - But to her surprise, a smile broke the solemnity of his features.

"Miss Bennett," he said, bowing slightly before gesturing with a long arm for her to follow him up the stairs. "We have a saying, _The unexpected is the chariot of fortune_. Forgive me, I would be honored to have you as my guest."

His manner was suddenly so courtly, so mollifying, that Bonnie felt a twinge of regret. He was a foreigner after all, and unprepared for an Englishwoman at his doorstep, much less one whose skin was more honey than porcelain.

"There's nothing to forgive, Count," she said, as they climbed up together. "I ought not to have presumed any disrespect. I know better than most the danger of presumption."

"I am afraid I do not understand," he said, undoing the heavy brass latching on the door. To her surprise, no servant or footman hurried to assist him. And where had the coachman got to?

"My father was born in the West Indies," she added, by way of explanation, glancing at the empty courtyard. As the castle doors swayed slowly open she felt a sudden thrill of fear, as though the courtyard and woods behind her comprised a world she was leaving behind.

The Count regarded her with glittering eyes. "Welcome, and enter freely, Miss Bennett."

Through the folds of her cloak, Bonnie clasped Enzo's picture in her gloved hands and, with a polite smile at the Count, stepped inside.

* * *

_Diary of Bonnie Bennett_

_Castle Mikaelson, Transylvania_

_1895_

_Diary, I have now been at this castle a fortnight. I have written to Enzo and Caroline to inform them of my safe arrival, and left my letters for the coachman as the Count instructed. This morning they were gone, presumably on their way to whatever post might exist in these wild parts! We are indeed in the heart of a great wilderness here, clasped between forests and a deep ravine, and a river below. I dare not walk out alone - there are, the Count tells me, roaming bandits in these woods, and animals besides. At night the wolves howl for long hours - such a terrible music, like what souls they have are crying for release from their beastly prisons._

_But here I am, drawing fancies again when I should be focused on the task at hand. The Count has promised to sign the deeds to Carfax Abbey and conclude our business together. He is abroad often during the day, and never appears until midday at least. He seems a very learned man, and speaks with great authority on the history of this country. His family, I understand, once ruled the Carpathians and protected the region from foreign invaders. When I queried whether he himself was of royal blood, he had the strangest look in his eye. As though my question both pleased him and stirred some deep sorrow. Tonight, he has asked me to join him for supper. I do hope I caused no offense._

_Diary, he has been a kind and gracious host, but...I must confess that he makes me uneasy. Perhaps it is this place - so large, and yet so empty of any servants. I have seen no sign that anyone lives here except him. Why does a nobleman of his wealth not employ any servants? Oh, how I wish Enzo were here to tell me I am being fanciful, or Caroline to make me laugh. __The ocean between us feels impassable, as though England were a dream and this place my waking life -_

_Diary, one last confession and then I must dress for supper. I have begun sleepwalking again - as I have not since I was a small child. Twice this week I have woken with dust on the soles of my feet, and the dreamlike memory of wandering the hallways. The other night I dreamed the sound of faint, girlish laughter and light footsteps. They beckoned me to follow - but I never drew close enough to glimpse a form. _ _I awoke in my bed with the distinct impression of having been carried and lain there - the dream was so vivid that even now I feel myself being lifted into strange arms..._

_I am clearly ill-suited for travel! Tonight I will procure the Count's signature, and inform him of my desire to return to London immediately. I hope he will not think me rude, but it is simply impossible to remain here much longer without any chaperone. Foreign though he is, surely a man of his education and refinement will be sympathetic to the dictates of propriety. I long to be in Enzo's company once more, to sleep in my own small bed, and never wake through the restless night!_

* * *

The Count is attired splendidly when she arrives, the high collar and sleeves of his black coat embroidered in rich gold thread, the waves of his dark hair swept proudly back from his striking face so the candlelight, by some mysterious alchemy, made him appear like a painting of an ancient age brought to life. Bonnie felt immediately embarrassed by her simple grey wool dress and apologized for her plain attire.

"There is nothing to forgive, Miss Bennett," he said, smiling as he reflected her own words back to her. "A woman so beautiful should never apologize for gracing the eye of her host."

She blushed, mumbling a thank you as she took her seat. The table was laid with a meal for one.

"I hope you will not be offended," he said, sitting elegantly in the high chair at the head of the table. "I have already dined."

"Really, sir," she chided. "It was you who asked me to join you."

"I'm afraid my...appetite overcame my manners," he said, with a flash of a smile. She had the impression of long, white teeth.

"Happens often, does it?" she said, laying her napkin in her lap. She had no idea where her pique came from - she was never the most outspoken woman in a group, preferring to mask her presence until necessary. It was a habit cultivated over years of being viewed as a foreigner in her own land.

The Count shrugged, his eyes dancing as though with a private joke. "Man, after all, is but a beast that walks on two legs instead of four."

"So now you blame beasts for your poor manners," she murmured into her wine glass.

The Count only smiled while she began to eat. Eventually, they grew engaged in a conversation about the region's history, which included the Knights of the Order of Dracul, a militant arm of the Orthodox Church to which members of his own family had belonged. His knowledge was both vast and precise, citing names and places and battles with astonishing ease as he painted a picture of carnage, twisted loyalties and bitter sacrifices. Bonnie found herself webbed with fascination. The words that fell from his mouth carried a strange musicality, the refrain of something she longed to grasp, that danced just beyond her reach, unsettling, alluring.

She glanced quickly away from the liquid gestures of his hands, looking about for a clock only to find no trace of one.

"I bore you, perhaps, with my zeal for history," he said, a dark gleam in his eyes.

"Oh not at all! I am tired, that's all," she said, with a sigh. "I should return to London in a few days."

"Are you displeased with my home?" he asked, watching her intently. Bonnie felt rather like a mouse caught in the cat's eye.

She shook her head. "You have been very kind, really. But I cannot intrude on your hospitality much longer. I ought to return home, Count."

She had not meant to say that last, but it slipped from her lips under the strain of waking sleep and the strange, lingering familiarity that followed her around this place.

"Home," the Count said, his eyes glittering with a fathomless intensity. "My dear Miss Bennett, I will see you returned home. I give you my word." . It seemed his figure drank the room's light, so all else faded into grey shadows. "Now, it would please me if you were to write three letters. One, to your betrothed, Lorenzo. Another to your family. Let them know it is my desire that you stay with me another month."

"A _month_?" she balked, before remembering herself. "You wish me to stay so long, why?"

"To teach me the ways of London. How the people of that city move, and speak, and think. What troubles them, what delights them. Such that when I arrive there, I will be indistinguishable from any other Englishman."

Bonnie scoffed. "Even if that were possible, to make so distinguished a person as yourself _indistinguishable_ \- I am hardly suited to instruct you. There are many doors in London closed to me that would open to you. I cannot give you what you seek," she said, her voice growing soft with uncertainty. But even as she spoke, a faint alarm sounded in her mind. If she refused, he might take offense and refuse to formalize the deeds - she would be forced to return to London empty-handed, Enzo would never gain the head clerk position with the increased salary that would allow them to marry.

"But that is precisely the point," the Count said, tilting his head in that serpentine way of his. "I wish to understand through your eyes, my dear. See what you see, hate what you hate, love what you love."

Her eyes darted around the dining room like a caged bird, the unpolished brass and silver, the unlit fireplace, the rich yet faded carpets on the floor. The dining table an oasis of light and cleanliness amidst the decay. Her fears returned, creeping across the back of her neck like cold fingers as she contemplated the weeks ahead, alone in this sprawling castle, covering what appeared to be a large portrait.

Fear tightened its grip, turning her blood to ice. She had a sudden, strong urge to pull the curtain aside, at the same time a terrible dread seized her head to toe.

"You are weary," he said, his voice soft and warm as a mantle. "Transylvania is not England, after all."

Bonnie rose from the table, and before she could blink his tall figure stood before her, as though he had glided across the floor. He loomed close above her, such that she could see the vital crimson of his lips when he spoke, and the sharp, white teeth between. He smelled of amber and frankincense and something else, something like loamy earth. It was an exotic combination, yet somehow familiar.

His long, slender hand grazed her cheek. "_Niciun rău nu o să păţiţi aici, draga mea_."

The dark cadence of his mother tongue was familiar like the strains of a half-forgotten song. For a moment, it seemed the room dissolved into color and light, fragrant with lilies and rich, roast food. _Yes_, she wanted to reply. _I know I am. _Her dress was transformed into a strange, woven garment of midnight blue, and she saw herself reflected in the pits of his eyes, like in the bottom of a well, only her face - her face was-

Bonnie lurched away, feeling seasick as he regarded her with a terrible tenderness. "Go rest now. I will expect your letters in the morning."

* * *

_Walking, walking, walking - her feet were cold and numb and painful but she must keep walking, for the mysterious figure she follows is swift as a deer. Bonnie hurries down hallways and stairwells in her nightgown, dizzy, breathless, like a rat in a labyrinth, until she finds herself in the dining room. It's empty now and full of pale shadows._

_The soft laughter faded and she saw a woman's figure, bent over the sideboard above which hung the yellow curtain that had so strongly fascinated her during supper._

_The woman was small and slender, her dress a deep, bruised blue. Bonnie saw the slender arch of neck and the back of a bent and delicate head. Dark curls of hair flowed down her shoulders and she stood still, terribly still, like someone waiting for the executioner's sword._

_There was something familiar, so dreadfully familiar about her._

_Bonnie trembled. "Who are you?"_

_When she received no reply, she repeated her question, louder this time. Still no reply._

_"Are you...is he keeping you here?" Bonnie whispered, listening for the Count's footsteps._

_She laughed again, low and soft and girlish, and Bonnie recognized the sound. The sound of her own voice, coming from a stranger. The woman began to turn, slowly, and Bonnie noticed the shape of her shoulder and bosom, the dusky tint of her skin. A nameless horror filled her throat, so she couldn't scream or speak or whisper, only watch as her doppelgänger kept turning towards her, like a doll in a music box._

_The other woman lifted her head. It was long and white and hooked, more beak than face. Bonnie screamed at last and fell, down to the floor as consciousness left her in a dark sweep, and she did not wake again until the sun was high and bright in the blind, grey sky._

* * *

Romanian translations:

_Niciun rău nu o să păţiţi aici, draga mea_ : No harm will befall you here, my dear.

_**A/N:** Hey hey, this is gonna be another short fic, two chapters or so. Huge love to my Romanian consultant ** thefudge** who's rooted for this fic since the beginning. Happy Halloween everybody!_


End file.
